by Steven J. Serafiani
in pure truth sorta bend, I
write in the vague interests of being pure in
thought and verse. I binge bang
on an Olivetti; all the mechanisms swing and tap in glorious jazz.
got all these jump rope vowels
swimming laps in my head and with hands I dictate as a sorta
professor, no, as a sorta mad conductor of my own merit.
then I get lost in the desk’s wood finish those
darkened swirl maple sun devils and
a new thought encroaches, seminal knife in
hand- so I took notice, first outta fear but
came on down
spoke clearer than any bora bora
palm dive… and it said,